


Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago

by solas_na_gealai



Series: The only constant is change [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alice's Restaurant, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Awesome Sarah Rogers, But just a little, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Healing, I didn't know I could write fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Irish Sarah Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Thanksgiving, healthcare families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solas_na_gealai/pseuds/solas_na_gealai
Summary: A thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, a song that always plays at noon, and memories that last long after we are gone.Steve Rogers may have lost his mother, but that doesn't mean she is truly gone.
Series: The only constant is change [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039622
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago

The sweet tinkling of bells had no hope of being heard over squeaking shoes, half screeched warnings, crinkling pastry boxes, and muttered cursing. Steve somehow managed to rush through the dinner door and right into Mr. Reily without knocking the poor man’s aromatic apple pies to the floor; though Steve did have to catch the man himself. The large blonde could feel his shoulder droop as he questioned his sanity for the fifth time that day, was it really worth rushing halfway across the borough to sit alone? No one would notice…

The first rumbling guitar cords meandered faithfully out of the dinner’s tinny ceiling-mounted speakers. A simplistic progression of notes. A warm cozy harmony patiently settling in, willing to wait for you to come sit down and listen.

“Steven,” the warm, if maternally aggravated, greeting pulled Steve out of his thoughts. With a final apology, Steve released a bemused Mr. Reily and turned to the willowy waitress behind the worn green laminated counter. Even with the silver streaking the chestnut hair pulled back into a sensible bun, the image of the older woman placing a perfectly chipped and off-white mug on the counter before an empty stool echoed through his memory. Of course she had known he would come…

“Elizabeth,” He shot back, full name dripping in playful retaliation even as gratitude warmed his bones. Crossing the space in a handful of large strides, Steve settled himself before the off-white mug and let the smell of cinnamon and chocolate surround him.

“ _This song is called Alice’s Restaurant…”_

“And it’s about Alice…” Steve whispered along with the song. Even as he could not bring his eyes up from the hand that was now clinging to the warmth of the mug, he could just make out Liz’s smile wavering a moment. Both firmly ignoring the watery edges around their vision, Liz left Steve with a menu and a quick pat on the wrist before retreating.

_“Walk right in, its around the back, just a half a mile from the railroad track.”_

Steve let his head drop between his tensing shoulders. He had almost missed this. This morning, staring over his pillow at the grey sickly light outside his window, Steve had wondered if he should even bother. What, exactly, was the point this year? Was it really worth dragging his ass out of bed on a precious day off? Just the thought of bundling up to weave through the masses all scurrying to spend time with loved ones had bile burning the back of his throat. The bitterness threatened to choke him and his eyes burned, yet it was the idea of missing this that had frozen his heart and pushed him across town.

_“Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on – two years ago on Thanksgiving…”_

For Steve, it had started almost two decades ago on Thanksgiving when one whiny sulking eleven-year-old who could not see past his own nose or temper was told by his overworked single mother of a nurse that she had been called into work.

“Mo stóirin…” Sarah Rogers sighed, one hip leaning against the couch her spitfire of a boy had claimed as his hill. Steve could still see the calm his mother had been clinging to with both hands. It had never hidden the exhaustion painted deep purple under her eyes or the stubborn strength tinting her cheeks a burning rose. Even as a boy he had recognized the strength embedded in Sarah’s spine. He could even understand, logically, why she had to work so much harder than anyone else he knew. Did not stop him from being eleven and pouty when his mother tried to reason with him. “How is this any different than me taking the Christmas shift?”

Steve logically knew she had a point, but he just tightened his indignation around himself like armor. Sarah had always volunteered for the Christmas or Christmas Eve shift at the hospitals. The eleven-year-old understood it was good money to work the holidays. Looking back, Steve also saw how his mother made herself indispensable. The bigger the holiday, the more gratitude from managers who had one less shift they had to beg, borrow, or steal to fill. Not to mention the gratitude from fellow nurses who actually got a chance to spend some time with their families. Made it just a little easier for Sarah to beg someone to cover a shift when Steve inevitably got sick. Sarah always knew how to horde goodwill and favors for a rainy day.

“Christmas is different!” The ball of pre-teen indignation wrapped up in an oversized sweater was absolutely not pouting as he pieced together logic to suit his hurt. “When you work Christmas Eve, we always have Christmas Day. There is only one Thanksgiving.”

Even as Steve stubbornly raised his chin in challenge, he knew that was not entirely true. Last year Sarah had worked the Christmas Eve shift but had been held back until almost six in the evening Christmas Day because Ms. Rosie’s kid had gotten hurt and she could not come in for her shift. Steve had been upset but had bitten his tongue as just a week before Sarah had been forced to leave work early when Steve had broken his fingers ‘playing’ with the Turner boys. But everyone at school was talking about having Thanksgiving with their families…

Maybe Sarah had seen what Steve had refused to admit. Knowing his mother, she had probably noticed the arms he would have sworn were crossed in anger protecting his small chest. Could she see the bruised fingers that he had dug into the cables of the sweater clinging to his own flesh hard enough to split the scabs on his knuckles? Or was it the drops of rage clinging to his eyelashes that he was begging not to fall?

His mother had always known, or at least suspected, what Steve got up to while she was working 12 and 18-hour shifts at the hospital. Even at a young age, he had a reputation for picking fights he had no hope of winning. When he grew older, she would tell him about the gaggles of young admirers and bemused older neighbors who would whisper about the boy who would defend anyone against anything. Well, anyone except himself.

Some things never change.

“ _Bhí cúr lena bhéal…”_ The muttered chastisement held no real heat as Sarah left the room to change into scrubs. Yet Steve knew, even then, that he was not really that mad. No, he had been foaming at the mouth when the Newhouse twins had been tormenting that new girl in school just because she wore a hijab. He had been even madder when the teachers seemed more upset at Steve for starting a fight. He had been almost as mad as when Father Mulligan had given an hour-long sermon on the “sins of sodomy and the break down of the godly family.” He vaguely remembers the tight grip Sarah had over his clenched hand being the only thing keeping him in the pews and not trying to deck a ‘man of God.’ (Though the relief he felt when his brilliant mother had found them a more welcoming congregation was a truly holy experience). 

Yet that morning, that Thanksgiving that found Steve clenching his knees to his chest and digging his fingers into his own shoulders as if he could cling to his anger like a shield was not the same. 

And Sarah must have seen it.

His mother had swept back into their simple Livingroom, bobby pin held between her teeth as she pinned her braid up against the nape of her neck before sticking a couple of pens alongside the pins for safekeeping.

“Come here and walk with me.” Steve remembers his heart-stopping and the breath freezing in his lungs.

“You…you’re leaving already?” The youthful fury that had been protecting him fled in a rush of words. Numb fingers dropped from his shoulders as the last drops of rage fell from his eyes. That was it. That was all the Thanksgiving he got with his mother and he had wasted it hiding behind a shield of his own stubborn sense of justice and fair play.

“Come on,” Sarah pulled the still confused boy off the couch, “Come on. If we hurry, we won’t miss it.” Confusion and despair fogged Steve’s mind even as he obediently donned the coat and hat thrown his way. Was this really the only time he was going to get with his mom on the national day of family and gratitude? Steve pressed into his mother as they picked their way past families juggling covered dishes, screaming children, and bottles of wine. Not that Steve would admit just how often in that 20-minute walk his mother had to steer the sulking boy so he didn’t run into signs or moving vehicles.

In fact, Steve was not sure if he even looked up from his feet until he caught sight of the bright blue hospital sign out of the corner of his eye. His heart sank, even with forewarning he had managed to squander what little time they had. He could not remember saying a single word the whole of the trip, let alone what he meant to say…

Yet his mother was still walking.

“Ma…?” Steve tried to stop and point towards the entrance to the hospital but Sarah just pulled him along.

“Come on, we have to hurry or we will miss it…” The blinding brilliance of Sarah’s mischievous smile spurred his feet into motion. Steve could swear he blinked and suddenly his mother was pushing him through the doors of a warm if worn diner.

“Sarah? Lil’ late for breakfast…and way too early for dinner. Wha’ are you doin’ here?” A willowy woman with chestnut hair teased from behind a green laminated counter.

“Hey Liz, you got it on?” Both women smiled even as Liz rolled her eyes.

“ 'Course we got it on. Noon every year…should start any minute now.”

Steve watched the verbal tennis with growing confusion even as his mother half lifted him onto a stool at the counter; something he never would have allowed if his brain had been firing on all cylinders. By the time his brain had remembered the function of words and how to ask his mother what was going on, a cinnamon hot chocolate with one very large dollop of fluff had been placed before him.

And then it started.

The first rumbling guitar chords meandered faithfully out of the dinner’s tinny ceiling-mounted speakers. A simplistic progression of notes. A warm cozy harmony patiently settling in, willing to wait for you to come sit down and listen.

It seemed like that was exactly what the diner and all its inhabitants meant to do. Conversations fluttered away. People settled back in plastic booths or leaned against the laminated counter to listen to an old friend. Even the sounds of the busy kitchen seemed muted, only the occasional clink of silverware competed with Arlo Guthrie’s folky drawl as he proclaimed,

“ _This song is called Alice’s Restaurant…”_

“and it’s about Alice…” Sarah joined as if explaining it to her son. Steve still did not understand as he wrapped his hands around the off-white mug of cinnamon cocoa. Yet he sat enthralled as his mother and Arlo Guthrie spun the story of Alice, Ray, and Fasha the dog living in their church in Stockbridge Massachusetts.

Somewhere around cleaning up the bell-tower, Liz added some turkey bacon to their impromptu Thanksgiving meal. Yet it was not until Arlo was having another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat that Steve realized he had gotten what he was so worried he would miss. Thanksgiving with the one person he was truly thankful to have in his life, and who might just be grateful for him in return.

Over the years, his mom had to continue to pick up Thanksgiving shifts. American blind justice did not keep Steve from getting in trouble in school. He saw the inside of the back of a patrol car after a school protest. And somehow talking about blood and gore and guts did not quell Steve’s desire to follow his father’s ghost into the Army. In all their years together, as long as Steve’s feet were on American soil, he and his mom found themselves in this little diner, leaning on its green laminated counter, with a coffee, cinnamon hot cocoa, and five-part harmony.

Yet this morning, feeling hung down, brung down, hung up, and all kinds o’ mean nasty ugly things, Steve had stared out his dirty window into the dingy grey sky and almost convinced himself it was not worth it.

“I didn’t miss it Ma…” Steve whispered into his cocoa, the words floating away on cinnamon-flavored steam. This was the first year there was no second mug. No coffee adding its bitter tang to his spicy steam. No lilting voice dancing along with Arlo’s folksy twang. Yet for 18 minutes and 37 seconds, in this little diner on the other side of town, he could have Thanksgiving with the one person he was truly thankful for.

**Author's Note:**

> find me @[solasnagealai-escapism](https://solasnagealai-escapism.tumblr.com/)


End file.
